Chapter 8

Chapter8

As I walked through the door, Cherry chiding me about being turned on by Ezra’s last words, magic bit into me from all sides. It was kind of like all three heads of the cartoon dog on the pub’s sign had decided I was their new favorite chew toy. I felt simultaneously snagged in that mesh net and like I was tumbling through a void, being pulled apart.

My body changed and morphed with a sudden violence that knocked the air from my lungs. The pins and needles sensation in my eyes was overwhelming, almost blinding, while the briny smell rushing up cold and fast off my skin was so strong that I had to swallow down the taste of bile.

There was an entity, an awareness, in this portal, and it planned to break me down for its inspection.

Cold sweat beaded my skin, and I couldn’t drag enough air into my lungs for a single normal breath. This thing hadn’t just seen past my glamor, it had seized upon my deepest secret and wanted it exposed.

Claws sprung out of my left hand and scales bloomed across my body. I fought to suppress the change and hold on to my glamor, but Sharnaz’s disguise tore painfully away from my skin in ribbons like thin wrapping paper, dissolving into the void.

The unseen presence dove deeper inside me, and I screamed, the sound echoing and swirling to batter against me.

A low, familiar hum like a million thrumming locusts vibrated through my veins. Crimson strands of hair whipped against the frosted green scales armoring my face, and my shoulders bulked up, turning my runner’s body to a boxer’s physique.

Two needle-sharp horns pierced the top of my head.

Laughter vibrated against my skin, like whatever was drawing out my shedim side was pleased with the results.

My fear that I was about to be tossed into the Copper Hell in this aggressive-looking—and highly top-secret—form was a distant second to my inability to sense Cherry Bomb.

It was like she was sealed behind some soundproof barrier. She still existed, but I couldn’t feel or even hear her. It was like my gut instincts had suddenly been severed, and I felt as vulnerable as a toddler in a rioting crowd.

Time seemed to stand still as I battled against the force within this portal. I was positive that if I was cast out of here without reclaiming myself, I’d lose Cherry forever. She’d be sealed out of my consciousness, wrapped in eternal bubble packaging I couldn’t pop. I couldn’t let that happen.

I visualized each part of my human body, clawing piece by piece through the blazing pain and forcing myself back to my regular form. Sweat ran down my neck, while my back and shoulders were tight from exertion by the time my claws returned to fingers.

With that last part of the transformation, Cherry roared back into my head. Her screams of fury were deafening.

Adrenaline coursed through me, giving me the necessary push to tear myself free.

Doubled over and gasping for air, I stumbled out into a foyer barely bigger than a broom closet. A rush of wind at my back signaled the portal closing behind me. I continued through the open door ahead, but I was so discombobulated that I was unable to appreciate the rippling brushed steel walls wrapping around the huge circular room, the narrow windows spaced in even rows peering into the night sky and inky waters, or the honey-colored lights spread across the ceiling that cast soft glows through swirling clouds of smoke.

Balls clanking in a pachinko machine, the riffle of chips, the clackety-clack of a roulette wheel—the sounds mingled with the rumble of a dozen languages to create a dull roar that vibrated through my head. It was peppered with the metallic clang of engines that shivered up through my feet, though there was no choppiness on board this yacht.

A few hundred people milled about. Some were clad in jewel-toned saris, others in black tie. There were embroidered cheongsams, kilts, racing leathers, one bushy blond Viking-looking dude in fur and metal, and some wearing barely anything at all, like the person clad simply in a swathe of green feathers. However, all of them were as showy as peacocks.

The patrons hunched around the tables like vultures, eagerly awaiting their turns. Varying degrees of despair and hope emanated off the patrons, but greed fogged the air more than any perfume.

Ezra, only a few steps ahead of me, turned around, his eyes widening a fraction before his expression tightened.

I looked down at myself. My own legs, my own arms, and my own preposterously underdressed clothes greeted me.

And here I was, in front of the most dangerous people in this reality.

Happily, there was no physical trace of Cherry. I stood there, not a South Asian man, but as me, wearing only the unbleached tunic and pants I’d changed into before being glamored. I didn’t have makeup on either, because Sharnaz insisted on a blank canvas.

All that time and pain acquiring this disguise for nothing.

To add insult to injury, my body still felt dull and heavy. My thick, dark brown waves were plastered to my skull in a messy tangle, my clothes were comprehensively wrinkled, and worst of all, my Maccabee ring glinted like a beacon.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter” wasn’t the official slogan of this magic gambling house, but right now, it might as well have been.

I curled my bare toes into the moss-colored carpet, trying to anchor myself to a firm reality. The rug was sharp and prickly, grating against the soles of my feet.

Suddenly, excitement spiked through me hard enough to make my legs shake. Cherry had sensed full demons present.

Or had she? I looked around. Everyone had a human body. Some patrons were Eishei Kodesh, others were vampires, like the employees who made no effort to hide their fangs.

Could shedim be disguised here when my glamor had been stripped away? That didn’t feel fair. That aside, were there demons present or was this simply Cherry’s reaction to an especially dangerous place?

I narrowed my eyes at an exceedingly generic white guy speaking to the vamp employee at his table in a harsh guttural language that sounded like Klingon punctuated by clicks.

That was a demon language for sure. The client was either a regular or the employee had some kind of translation device, because the vamp dealt them another blackjack card.

It made sense for demons to glamor since some wouldn’t have opposable thumbs in their natural form, but I wish I knew how they’d kept their disguise, because it didn’t bode well for me.

I ducked at a loud pop, but it was a champagne bottle being uncorked. My heart wouldn’t stop racing because everyone here was an enemy, and too many of them were staring at me.

The chatter in the room died off slowly, and even the furious clack of mah-jongg tiles at one table stopped. The dip in sound was like the swoop of a rollercoaster plummeting from the top of the track.

Two staff members—one male, one female—headed toward us. Their fitted gunmetal-gray trousers and collared button-down shirts were accessorized by flat, assessing eyes. The Copper Hell’s logo was embroidered above their hearts: a fat flame bound diagonally by a thin copper band.

Training and self-preservation kicked in. I couldn’t believe I had to do this, but my life was on the line and I was quite fond of it.

I wrung my hands together, a sniveling expression on my face, and turned to my companion. “Please no. I don’t want to be here. I can get you the money I owe, I swear.”

Unholy amusement lit Ezra’s eyes for a split second. Awesome. Well, I had no one to blame but myself. And whatever was in the portal. Lots of blame for that.

My partner’s cold laugh sent shivers down my spine. “You think your debt can be paid off that easily, Maccabee?” He roughly gripped my shoulder.

I winced, hissing in pain. It wasn’t all Ezra; the damn lingering glamor ache was truly a bitch.

He relaxed the pressure, keeping his fingers stiffly bent so no one could tell otherwise.

The employees shifted closer, and patrons stared with calculating shrewdness as if formulating how to take me off Ezra’s hands. A desperate, in-debt Maccabee would be quite the prize.

“I told you when I bought your marker that I didn’t care about the money.” Ezra stroked a finger against my cheek. “You’ll prove your worth in other ways.”

I wrapped my arms around myself because the purr in his voice had turned my nipples into mini spears under my paper-thin tunic, and I couldn’t stop myself from remembering that ill-advised kiss.

Ezra’s eyes darted briefly to my lips, but he quickly turned and scanned the room. “Which table’s hot tonight?”

The female vamp employee touched her sleek black bracelet and a hologram popped up with six squares. Each one displayed the faces of two to five players.

Ezra studied it for a moment, then pointed at a square with three players. “Them.”

“Wait,” I said. “Who are they?”

“Did I give you permission to speak?” His sneer sliced through me.

Glad as I was that he was running with my plan, I almost rolled my eyes. You aren’t treading the boards at Stratford, dude. Tone it down a notch.

I shook my head in answer to his question, regretting the motion immediately since it kicked off a pounding in my temples.

The thing was, no one else looked surprised that Ezra was acting a breath away from twirling a nonexistent mustachio and tying me to a railroad track. Some appeared scared, others wore sly expressions like they were setting him in their sights as well (good luck with that), while most took his attitude as matter-of-fact, but still avoided him.

No one stepped forward to call him friend.

Ezra embraced this role, but I didn’t believe he enjoyed it. My ex was a social creature and the Crimson Prince was strangely isolated. Maybe he’d created the Prime Playboy as much to belong as to play spy, because it was hard to remain an island of one for extended periods of time. But even then, Ezra was an outsider. Any relationships he formed in that guise were built on a lie, an illusion.

I dug my nails into my palms to drive away the wistful sting in my chest.

“What are they playing?” Ezra pointed at the players in his chosen hologram.

“Hazard,” the female employee said.

Who wouldn’t want to play a game with that name, given the circumstances? Sign me right up.

“That’ll do,” Ezra said. “Set her up there.”

That documentary I’d watched about the history of gambling mentioned that hazard was a dice game. One that I had no freaking clue how to play.

“What are the rules?” I said.

“Roll the dice and make sure you win,” Ezra said.

My vamp escorts hauled me away.

Elaborate chandeliers boasted cascading tiers of crystals that seemed to swivel as we walked underneath them, as though each one was a magic eye tracking all that happened. Who’s to say they weren’t in a place like this?

My car key in my pocket thudded against my thigh with each step like a drumbeat leading to the gallows—or to the shore of a deep, cold lake of fear. This is my plan, I reminded myself. I am not helpless in this situation. And I am not alone.

To boost my spirits, I dubbed the employees Li’l Hellions in my head because envisioning these bloodsuckers as a motley group of Depression-era rascals with newsie caps ratcheted down my spiraling emotions by several notches.

Other Li’l Hellions manned the tables, which were set out at spacious intervals. One dispensed cards in a blur, another calmly snapped the wrist of a much larger man who played his domino tile too soon. The man cried out as the Hellion calmly and efficiently reran the round.

There was gambling from all over the world represented here, and not just the obvious choices. I spied heated tournaments of popular board games.

Over to my right, a man roared in triumph, flinging his winning cards down on an oval poker table. He thumped a fist on a padded leather bumper, and his opponent, a woman in a Chanel suit, cried out, begging for another chance.

“Banker calls the forfeit,” the Li’l Hellion at their table said with no emotion whatsoever.

The female opponent ran but got only a handful of steps because manacles made of purple and orange magic captured her wrists and ankles. A fat collar jerked tight around her neck, and her lips were magically sewn together in garish stitches.

More purple and orange magic swirled around the bound woman. Her skin grew pallid and her body shook harder and harder, her head thrashing so violently I braced myself for the snap of her neck.

A magic stream of light poured out of her. It split into two, half going into a slot in the table next to the banker and the other half swirling into the winner. His cheeks lost their jowly, ruddy appearance, and while he didn’t look younger, he looked healthier.

The female player grew gaunt, and when the manacles released her, she slumped forward like a rag doll.

How had some life force or vitality been taken from her? There wasn’t Eishei Kodesh magic that could extract life, much less transfer it.

Demons, Cherry answered in a giddy voice. The magic that rendered this yacht invisible, the portal, the mechanism for betting and collecting bets, it was all demon magic. It had to be, though we were here on earth.

Regardless, the fact that this megayacht wasn’t built in a demon realm like Babel meant I had control over my physical form. Sadly, that wasn’t much of a consolation considering my own emotions made me vulnerable to exposure.

One of my escorts prodded me to walk faster.

Even if I stayed calm and locked Cherry down tight, the bets themselves were deadly. I stumbled. What would I be forced to risk?

Ezra touched the small of my back, not for comfort but to get me moving.

I ground my teeth together, keeping my eyes on the carpet, because the prickling that preceded the toxic green eyes of my stage-one shedim form was so strong, it made my teeth throb.

Ezra didn’t want me calm? Mazel tov. He’d gotten his wish.

Cherry cackled in my head.

He’d said it was no big deal to go through the portal into this gaming hell, yet I’d been broken down and stripped bare. If he’d known from the beginning that I’d end up exposed and left with no choice but to play the only card in my hand—being in his debt—he’d also find out how dangerous I could be.

Now that was a future worth surviving for.